Baldur's Gate Shorts
by Keldan
Summary: Original title, I know. A collection of unconnected short stories based in the Baldur's Gate universe, and using some quite familiar characters...
1. Salvation

Disclaimer: I do not own Baldur's Gate, Baldur's Gate II, or any of the characters or plots in said games. I only own the plots of these short stories. And that's not precisely going to make me money, hey?

Sarevok Anchev had begun earning a reputation as a hard man to beat.

In truth, he was never beaten. Pompous fools that they were, merchants occasionally tried to invent stories of economical derring-do, fooling him into paying them twice what they would normally get for a shipment of silk or some other such thing. But when was pressed to provide proof of their super-human trading skills, most withered under the pressure. Yes, Sarevok was becoming a popular figure in Baldur's Gate. All was going according to plan.

Kneeling in front of his father's altar, while undoubtedly pointless, gave Sarevok a sense of being bolstered—he felt that everything was right when he stared at the symbol of Murder: a skull carved in stone, jaw forming a macabre grin, eye sockets wide and staring. The rubies which used to adorn the drops of blood surrounding the skull were missing now, but the carved niches were still there. Soon this would be his symbol.

He made no prayers to any gods, unless his own thoughts to himself counted. He was so close to godhood, why should they not?

The tiniest bit of him, deep in the back of his mind, where he had made sure to hide it, said to him: Godhood is not meant for mortals, everyone knows that. You either are a god, or you're not.

The Time of Troubles proved that theory wrong ages ago, he replied.

We'll see, it replied, in almost smug tones.

Galled that a part of himself could sound so assured that he was on the wrong path, Sarevok made a conscious effort not to think on the way back.

**--------------------------**

When Sarevok reached the tower of the Iron Throne, it was abuzz with activity. Dozens of people had arrived in the time he was gone, and clerks and merchants were rushing hither and yon, papers flying after them. He snorted and walked up the stairs towards his rooms, unwilling to deal with anyone today. He was reaching for a door when he ran into someone.

The someone was female. She had barely maintained her balance; he could help but be impressed. When Sarevok ran into someone, they usually stayed run into. She recovered and bowed to him, in a strange style that after a few moments of searching his mind he recognized as the Kara-Turan form of bowing. She muttered something that sounded like an apology and hurried off, throwing a glance behind her as she left. She was petite, but wiry, and he wondered what she was doing there.

Upon returning to his rooms, he picked up a book at random and began leafing through it. It turned out to be a copy of the Prophecies of Alaundo, smuggled out of Candlekeep. He paused at a page that showed an illustration of the symbol of Murder. Large, dark eyes swam into his memory as he stared at the skull.

In the back of his mind, the voice said: Perhaps she will be your salvation.

This time he didn't oppress it.


	2. To the First Blood

The topic for this short bit of story came from **Gamejag's Fortnightly Quiz**. I highly recommend checking out the Serials forum there, that's where I also post **Bats Outta Hell**, and the people are very friendly and helpful.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Baldur's Gate or any of the characters used within this story. I own only the plot. Thank you and please don't sue me.

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Aerie was free.

Free!

The cage door was open. She could walk right out. And yet… walk. Her wings were gone. Sawn off. Discarded like old boots.

Quayle had walked away, giving her a chance to run. He'd said he never agreed with what "that circus" did to her. He'd said he'd visited every day just to give her some company. He hadn't said he felt sorry for her. He knew that would be the wrong thing to say, even if it was the truth.

Aerie was angry.

She'd never been angrier. She'd never felt this rage coursing through her veins, lifting her up, making her stronger. She could bend it to her will, she knew, if she just made a tiny effort. The smallest effort ever made. She did.

She felt so much stronger than she ever had.

And she had to use that strength. She'd never killed anyone or anything, except a butterfly she'd accidentally splattered while flying. But she felt now what it was like to be so angry as to commit murder, and she liked it.

She stepped out of the cage.

There was a toolbox nearby. It had always sat in that exact location, just out of her reach, intentionally left there to torture her. She could never reach it, until now.

There was a saw in it. Appropriately ironic, but she needed a stabbing point. An awl found her fingers. Good enough.

Her back ached. The scars were still not fully-healed. The infection that had wracked her body since before the amputation was still not entirely gone. She'd always had a weak constitution, her mother used to joke and say she was as fragile as a new-born bird. She wouldn't be fragile tonight. Couldn't. Not when there was revenge to be sought.

Somehow, labeling it "revenge" made it even easier.

The man who'd held her down slept in that tent. She was still an elf, and an avariel at that: She was light enough to make no noise as she padded in. He was snoring. She hesitated, only for a moment, then positioned the awl above his heart. She punched it down. It met with resistance as it pierced his skin but that was solved by pressing harder.

The man's eyes snapped open in the dark. She could see it because of her infravision. He couldn't see his attacker, however. He took a deep breath to scream, faltered, and died.

Something in Aerie screamed or exploded or burst into flames or simply rolled over and died. It had been so easy.

The man who had sawed off her wings slept in the next tent over. She repeated the process, this time punching harder and more quickly so that he didn't even wake up.

The man who'd ordered it done instead of paying for a healer was across the path. He died just as quickly.

Aerie wasn't sure what to do now. Vengeance had been served. She hadn't even had time to brood about it. It was already over. What would she do now?

She ran into the surrounding forest to where Quayle had said he would wait for her.

She was spattered in blood. She hadn't noticed the warm drops hitting her face or hands while she was doing it, but now she wanted to be sick. Only she had nothing to throw up, so what was the point? What was the point of anything?

"Oh, Quayle," she croaked.

Quayle nodded. He hugged her around the waist. She bent down to hug him back.

"Don't worry, Aerie," said Quayle. "We'll think of something."

But all Aerie could think of was the part her that had died that night.


End file.
